This, you may not know


The bowl of glass is green all the time. The delicate red petals look like a dazzling flame from afar. After such a long winter, I met such a lazy master, who is still growing in silence and tenaciously. From a few poor and sparse branches, it has grown into a luxuriant and enchanting cluster. Among the many flowers on the windowsill, it is so common that it is coquettish and timid. But I can't help but stare at it for a long time Every time I see it, I think of you. This, you may not know. Spring has come, that touch of introverted green meaning from far and near, from light to thick, quietly, slowly, but so firmly step by step. I often go to the woods by the river alone to feel the long lost spring. I stepped on the soft spring mud and walked slowly. From time to time, I stopped to look at the fresh green blooming in the dead grass, the buds drawn from the branches, the happy yellow flippers of the ducks chasing and playing in the river, and the beautiful posture of the birds circling among the branches. I closed my eyes and sat on the uphill for a long time. The breeze blew, and the warm and friendly atmosphere filled my mind Inadvertently, I will read your name gently. This, you may not know. The alley is very short, which can be seen from one end to the other. On both sides of the street are ordinary households and shops, with similar doors. The roadside is full of stalls selling all kinds of fried food. The whole street is entwined by numerous attractive fragrances, the peddling voice of businesses, and the noise of the crowd, which can't be stopped or hidden. I used to walk from one end of the alley to the other with the crowd on my side, asking nothing and buying nothing. Just to identify every face, every back Many times, in a trance, I seem to see you. This, you may not know. I often linger between the toasts, almost every evening to night, in the deep intoxication, I temporarily forget the time, forget the frustration in my heart. However, when I linger alone in the lonely street at night, staggering through the neon businesses and shops, occasionally a familiar old song in the nearby stereo will make me focus on memories and imagination. No, not only these, but also a sentence, a specific scene, even a weather, a ray of sunshine, a breath will make the past reappear in my mind, unable to resist tears Meng. Perhaps, missing is really a disease. It's all over my skin, deep into my blood and all over my body. It makes me lazy and sleepy, and I don't think about food and tea, "I've seen people haggard in the mirror, and I can't distinguish lazy dressing in the morning and dusk"; it makes me sensitive and confused, "when I feel it, tears are splashed, and I hate birds to be frightened" What kind of heartache is that? You may not know. Yes, you may not know all this, but I believe that you will never forget it, because it is our common experience. You may not know what my favorite poem is. If there is a chance in the future, I will tell you: that very short alley, we have gone through a very long time. ——May 13, 2010

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